


Mouth

by GhostRedone



Category: Animorphs - Katherine A. Applegate
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hot, Kissing, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5185877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostRedone/pseuds/GhostRedone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembered her mouth (and his mother's mouth, wide and open, screaming as she fell). He remembered the cool bottle of champagne pressed up against Rachel's neck, and the small wet impression her lips made against the glass. Marco/Rachel</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. For Better or Worse

**Author's Note:**

> This is set around the end of book 35 (The Proposal). Marco doesn't know if his mother is alive or dead. The last he saw of her was in book 30 (The Reunion) as she fell down a cliff.
> 
> This will be a two part story.

**Part I: For Better of Worse**

The words were whispers between his teeth.

_Through sickness and health, for richer or poorer, 'til death do us part._

_For better or worse, for better or worse, for better or worse._

Marco slumped forward, anchoring his arms on his bent knees in front of him. He sat on a low wall overlooking the rest of the wedding guests in the dim light. Small paper lanterns were strung up in the trees, and the fading sun had just dipped below the horizon. He clamped his teeth together, and let out a heavy exhale with those quiet words echoing in his mind. _For better or worse_.

Only a few people remained at the outdoor reception area. The resort staff was busy folding up chairs, and clearing away tables of discarded dishes. One couple continued dancing to the quiet purr of music that was seeping from the speakers on the empty dance floor. He found himself hating those people on the dance floor. Their comfortable stances. Their mouths. Mostly their smiling.

The anger was a dull beat in the base of his stomach.

He should be happy too. Marco should be happy. His father had finally gotten remarried, found peace of mind, fallen back in love. _For better or worse._ He should be happy that his father wasn't lonely anymore, that he no longer stared at Marco with those dead eyes that had haunted his face for two years. But he couldn't stop thinking about his mother.

His mother, oh god: Beautiful, unstoppable, alive, (breathing, warm, mouth, smiling) and dead (a corpse, rotting). Thoughts were there too, thoughts of dying.

Mostly her dying.

It played in his mind like a nightmare: The small, horrifying second when his mother was no longer standing on solid ground; the rushing panic in her eyes; the shape of her mouth; the muted, strangled noise that came from the back of her throat as she cried out in fear. And what always followed was the falling. Eva would fall, and sometimes Marco would fall with her. If he thought hard enough, he could even hear the violent snapping of her bones, as her soft, warm body collided with jagged rocks under the cliff. He could remember the brutal, ugly fear inside his stomach—milky white and hot—and the cool, sick relief that washed over his insides, hollowing him out like a jack-o-lantern.

The emptiness. A jack-o-lantern. Rotting. A fall wedding. Falling. For better or worse.

Marco's eyes lifted again. Laughter now, from the dance floor. Two resort staff members were talking a few yards away. There was the clatter of dishes being stacked and taken away, and his heavy breathing, shaky and broken.

She lived and died in his mind.

But mostly she died.

Marco leaned his head back, looking up at the quiet gray sky. The sun hovered in the distance, hazy and overcast by clouds. He swallowed audibly, trying to clear the direction his thoughts were going, but his mind would not obey. He had been drinking earlier, sneaking glasses of champagne at the wedding reception, until he felt light and easy and free. Now, he couldn't quite keep things in focus. _There is a corpse in my stomach,_ he thought distantly. _A dead thing down my throat._

Suddenly he heard the approach of footsteps.

_And this melancholy longing is climbing into my mouth, hungry for something sweet and dark._

It was Rachel.

He could tell by the click of her shoes on the pavement. She was wearing those goddamn heels that made her look like a goddess on stilts. It wasn't often that she dressed up. She was heart-breakingly beautiful on a bad day. On a day like this, in the cooling autumn air, and shoes like _that,_ she owned every person who dared to lift their eyes in her direction. Marco felt his fingernails dig into the soft skin of his palm as he tightened his fist.

Rachel's voice was clear and biting. "Are you hiding?" And the implied, _Are you a coward?_

He flicked his eyes in her direction, and something funny happened to his throat when he saw her in the dim light. She was beautiful, and she was challenging him. She was challenging him with three easy words, when he felt pathetic and alone. Nothing could stop her—not even the fall, he imagined (and the words were there in his mind like a chant: _falling, warm body colliding, diving head first into the rocks_ ).

Rachel was looking at him expectantly, still clear, still biting. He suddenly felt like he might cry. "Aren't we always hiding?" he managed, his voice cracking.

There was something in her eyes then, for a split second. And Marco hated himself for letting this emotion seep into his voice. He hated himself for letting her see him like this. He was rotting like a gutted pumpkin; there was a dead thing in his stomach. But he didn't act like this in front of anyone—in front of Rachel. He didn't cry or hide at weddings. And she didn't look at him with… What had been in her eyes then, for that split second?

Disappointment?

Pity?

Fuck.

But Rachel was doing her part not to mention it. She even had a funny little smirk, he realized, and he felt a small relief wash over him. Thank god for that mouth of hers. That terrible, snarky little mouth.

"So, what? You going to dance or just sit on the sidelines like some loser?" she asked, motioning to the empty dance floor.

Marco took a breath to compose himself, made sure his voice wouldn't betray him again. Then he said, "I probably shouldn't. When I dance, all women fling themselves at me uncontrollably."

She laughed. He found himself staring at her mouth as she laughed. That terrible, snarky little mouth that he was thanking god for. It reminded him of something. Something dizzy. Something heated. Something dark and hungry and alive. Something.

And god... he couldn't help it. Who could blame him when he was confronted with _that fucking mouth?_ She was smiling now, the corners of her lips twisted into a sweet, little curve, like she knew how easy it would be to swallow him whole. He felt a small warmth at imagining her wobbling on those tall shoes, as he would grab her roughly by the hair and bite down into her bottom lip. Yes, that mouth would be his fucking downfall if she kept at it.

Marco suddenly noticed the bottle of champagne she was dangling in one hand.

"And what is that for?" He asked, nodding towards the alcohol.

The smirk returned. A breath of air passed between parted lips. "Let's walk."

 

* * *

 

They were quiet then, walking along the paths that ambled through the hotel courtyard, outwards, towards the resort golf course. The air was heavy, but chilly. They passed the bottle of alcohol between them, each taking a gulp or two silently, letting it slip down the back of their throats.

Marco cradled the bottle of champagne, enjoying the weight of the glass in his hands. He liked thinking that only moments earlier Rachel's lips had been pressed up against the rim of the bottle, leaving a sweet and wet impression of her mouth along the glass. His thumb brushed over that spot a few times as he wondered how many glasses of champagne he had swiped earlier that evening. Did it even matter? Did it matter when it was cool outside, and there was a corpse in his stomach?

Rachel reached for the bottle. Seconds later she made a small noise.

Marco's eyes darted over to her and he saw that she was pressing the cold bottle against the front of her neck. She leaned her head back, the long slope of her neck like a path leading straight to her ample cleavage. The perspiration on the outside of the glass dampened the edge of her light colored dress and Marco's focus zeroed in on the semi-transparent fabric by her chest. It lifted and fell with her breathing, and a kind of guilty, dark heat nested in the back of his mouth. He felt like a snake with a sack of venom between his teeth. He was dizzy and warm and ready to sink right into her and make her cry out from the pain. And brave, beautiful, untamable Rachel would whimper below him...

His fantasy was disrupted when she roughly shoved the bottle of champagne back into his hands.

"What are you still doing here, anyway?" he asked hoarsely, forcing his eyes upward to her face.

She shrugged, sending a wave through her long golden hair. It caught and faded in the dim light, and the heat in Marco's mouth seemed to bloom down over his chest. "Cassie and Jake disappeared together," she said, raising one eyebrow. "Tobias and Ax had to bail to go demorph."

"So, why don't you just go home?" Marco pressed, looking down at the scuff on his shiny shoe.

"Because I—" she stopped herself, and fell still beside him.

His stomach tightened as he realized why she was still here with him. He stopped walking too, and they stood there, shoulder to shoulder. He kept his eyes trained downwards, cursing under his breath. _Don't say it,_ he pleaded silently. _Don't confess that you are worried about me._

A few beats of silence passed. Marco let out a slow breath, suddenly aware that their elbows were bumping.

Rachel finally leaned over and yanked the bottle of champagne back from Marco's hands. "I just wanted to get into some normal, stupid teenage trouble," she said, wagging the champagne bottle in front of his face. "Is that so wrong?"

Marco felt more at ease now that he wasn't touching her. Even her elbows could undo him. "Trouble, huh? You sure you'll be able to handle that, Xena?"

She gave him a wild grin, proof that she could handle _anything_. Marco clenched his fists. She had no idea that snarky, little mouth was _killing him._

His dark troubling thoughts were still there, plaguing his mind, and the small fantasies of Rachel too, that he kept tucked in the air between them. _And oh how sweet_ , he thought distantly, maybe a little drunk, _between us, something. Something hungry. Something dark. Something._

She titled the bottle up to her lips, and a small drip of alcohol fell from the corner of her mouth. Marco found himself staring at it, imagining leaning over and licking it off of her skin. But then she was grinning again, and he had to stop staring at her mouth. _That mouth,_ he thought. _That troubling mouth, oh god._ He closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath, through his teeth, like a hiss.

With closed eyes, he felt her lean up next to him, so her breathing was up against his ear.

Her voice came out low and languid, rough and challenging. "Dare me."

 

* * *

 

 

Marco took a stumbling step backward, his pulse beating rapidly. He opened his eyes and found hers. There was that something back in her gaze. Something unnameable. Something dark and warm. Something hungry.

A shot of adrenaline flooded him, made him feel light-headed and sweaty. Or maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the cool autumn air. Maybe it was the way his heart ached when he imagined his mother (a corpse, rotting.) He felt this momentum building inside of him. He wanted to replace this emptiness with something—with Rachel's mouth, or her hands, with the cocky way she smirked at him. He remembered that mouth (and his mother's mouth, wide and open, screaming as she fell). He remembered the cool bottle of champagne pressed up against Rachel's neck, and her lips, and the small wet impression her lips made against the glass. (And maybe more, maybe something about the way swallowing always reminded Marco of drowning.)

"So we're gonna play this game, are we?" he managed, trying to sound casual, but his voice was coarse and thick. It felt difficult to form words and push them from his lips.

"What game?" Rachel snapped.

"Truth or dare."

She laughed. It was the same reckless laugh she saved for battles, and he knew then she must be excited. Knowing this made his stomach tighten. He was excited too. "You don't want to play that game with me," Rachel mused, a devious quality in her smile.

"And why not?" Marco asked, raising one eyebrow. His heart was now hammering in his ears, a boiling kind of rhythm that made it hard for him to keep things in focus.

"Because you'll fucking lose," she said easily.

"Then let's play, Xena."

"You aren't afraid to lose?" she barked, baring her teeth.

"Oh I'm terrified," he replied, eyeing those teeth. _Those troubling teeth._ "But it's been a few days since we've gone running and screaming from some terror. So, you know. Life seems kind of dull."

"Hah! _Some of us_ aren't afraid of little fight," she said.

"Alright then, Rachel. Truth or dare?" Marco bit out, suddenly filled with a rumbling urgency.

She gave him a knowing look. "Do you even need to ask?"

"Fine. Dare it is."

Marco surveyed his surroundings, running a hand along the neck of the champagne bottle still in his grasp. They were far away from the hotel patio now. Over the lush golf course he could see the sparkling of the ocean in the distance. Everything was gray and quiet. It wasn't even windy. He suddenly became more aware of the sound of his feet crunching into the gravel of the pathway, and the heaviness of his breathing. They were alone. Completely alone. He turned to look at her, and she was glaring at him impatiently.

"Well?" her voice rang out.

And the words were there in his mind before he even realized it.

_Take off your dress._

It was a dark and unforgiving request, and it bubbled up from somewhere inside of Marco he couldn't identify. _Something_ was there. It made him dizzy. It made him want to push her far enough. It made him want to indulge. He knew how addicting the thrill was to her. He knew how much she relied on her bravery, how saying, "no" to small challenges felt like defeat, how crushing defeat was to her self-worth. And she was there, glaring at him, unafraid, willing, excited. And here it was, in his mind, the one thing he wanted from her. _Take off your dress._

_That troubling dress._

He found himself talking. He didn't like that. He didn't like that his words were moving on without his mind's consent. He hadn't realized how drunk he was until that moment. "…You can steal a golf cart," he finished off.

Her eyes were flashing with approval of his request. In the next moment, her warm hand was clasped around his wrist as she pulled him forward. He stumbled along next to her, until they had broken into a gallop. God, he was drunk. He could hardly keep one foot in front of the other. But it didn't matter. The longing in his throat was mingling with laughter. His rotting insides felt far away. That ugly, dark obsession (a corpse), was gone.

There was just this challenge. This night.

And Rachel.

_For better or worse._

 

* * *

 

 **Notes:** Part two coming soon. There might be some inevitable smuttiness. I can't help myself.

**A sneak peak:**

He shifted around and saw her, blinking rapidly to clear the memories from his mind. She had turned, showing Marco her back, her hair gathered to one side of her neck.

He froze. The dress she was wearing met in a deep V between her shoulder blades. Her soft, smooth skin was illuminated from the light of the pool, and Marco had a sudden urge to press his mouth right up against the back of her neck. His insides were aching. His insides were aching, and Rachel was so nonchalant about it all, like it meant nothing. Like undressing her was something mundane and normal, like he wasn't dying inside. He knew they had seen each other strip off their clothes down to their skintight morphing outfits before, but this felt different. This felt like he was holding his breath, needing to see another square inch of her skin to breath again.


	2. Please

**Part II: Please**

The sun had set, leaving a dusky orange hovering over the horizon. Marco wasn't sure they would find any golfers at this hour, but with some luck they might find the last lingering group at the resort. They wandered around for a while, jogging along when they thought they heard the sound of people up ahead.

Then suddenly Rachel cried out.

"There!" Her voice was breathless and rushed.

His eyes lifted towards the distance and he saw a lone golf cart sitting on the path. Marco let a long, piercing crow escaped his mouth. He couldn't help it. He wasn't sure he could stop any of his impulses at this point.

Rachel had slowed her run to peer around the grassy hills surrounding the path. Marco thought he heard the jingle of voices nearby, but his mind wasn't as quick and suspicious as he was accustomed. The floating voices seemed amusing, only adding to the electricity of their hunt.

"I'm too drunk for this," Marco admitted suddenly.

"Shhh!" Rachel hissed, grabbing a hold of his arm and dragging him off the path. "They only left their cart for a second. We really only have one shot at this." Her voice was low, and Marco found himself staring again at her mouth, which was only a few inches from his own.

That mouth. That fucking mouth. It was filthy, sweet perfection—deep, dark, warm, wet, a safe harbor for Marco's fingertips, and tongue, and frothy growls of need. He just wanted to—

"Now!"

Rachel shot out across the path, and Marco stumbled along behind her. She was already in the driving seat and pushing her foot on the gas pedal by the time Marco got one leg into the cart. He clung to the bar overhead and somehow swung his body into the moving vehicle in time not to get left behind. There were questioning voices from up on the grassy hill—"What the hell? Is that our golf cart?"—and Marco was suddenly giggling uncontrollably.

"What the fuck? You sound like a school girl," Rachel snickered as she swerved manically around the hill back towards the hotel.

He continued giggling, watching the way the half-empty bottle of champagne on his lap danced to the rumble of the golf cart.

"That ... was ... it was ... just ..." He couldn't finish his sentence.

When he looked up again, Rachel was grinning.

"That was thrilling," she said, completing his thought. And then she laughed—a true Rachel laugh. It sang out into the still, cooling air and seemed to fill up the sky.

Before he knew it they were both cracking up, unable to control the volume of their laughs as they sped along in their stolen golf cart.

 

* * *

 

They ambled along the path for a while in silence, until Rachel yanked the bottle of champagne from Marco's lap.

"You probably shouldn't be drinking and driving," Marco declared. "Plus, I'm the professional here."

Rachel screwed up her face. "Even sober you're only capable of driving into trees, street signs, trash cans ..."

"Pshaw!" Marco waved his hand in the air dismissively. "Those were flukes."

Her grin was loopy as she grabbed the neck of the bottle with one hand and downed the remaining liquid inside. Marco was temporarily captivated with watching her drink. He stared, fascinated, at her throat as she swallowed. There was something sexy about it, almost secretive, like he was watching an intimate act. Rachel finished the last gulp of champagne and then pried the bottle away from her mouth. For a moment she was slack-jawed, heavy-lidded, and beautiful. Marco wanted to burn that image into his brain.

Rachel smiled. "It's your turn."

Marco was still distracted. "My turn for what?"

"Truth or dare."

Marco leaned back in his seat, considering the gravity of this choice. Under normal circumstances he wouldn't be opposed to the safety and cowardice of picking truth. He was sure he could talk himself out of any potentially embarrassing question. But his judgment was clouded with alcohol, with his mother's inevitable fall, with the heat of Rachel's mouth. It was pressing down on him, filtering through the layers of his skin, and settling into the base of his stomach. It waited there, coiled and heavy, trying to escape.

He needed… _something._

"Dare," he decided.

Rachel cackled, bringing the golf cart to a jerking halt on the pathway.

It took Marco a moment to realize they had stopped in front of the swimming pool which was up against the tall hotel building. Dark windows lined one edge of the pool deck, and tiny lights illuminated the long rectangle of water.

It was deserted.

Marco felt his heart thumping as he stared at the long body of water. The pool was casting pale, blue reflections along every surface, causing light and shadow to waver through the air. This place felt haunted. His ghosts were here. And his heart sputtered in its spot. He wasn't sure he wanted to move, afraid to face the dark quality of his thoughts. But then he looked up, and Rachel was already waiting for him next to the black, iron gate that surrounded the area. She was bathed in a blue light, gleaming in the dark. And with shaking hands he managed to climb out of the golf cart to meet her.

"Do you have a key?" she whispered.

Marco reached into his pocket and fingered the smooth keycard his dad had given him. They had paid for a bachelor suite for the wedding, and Marco was going to stay the night in the hotel. Yes, he had a key. He could feel it between his fingers, the hard edges pressing into the base of his palm. But he shouldn't say yes. He should stop. He should lie to her and end the game. A foggy part of his mind already knew where this was heading, tipsy and lightheaded and ... wet. The light from the pool danced, shadows rippling across her breasts, and lips, and skin. She was haunting him, he was drunk, and he wanted her (breathing, warm, mouth).

He couldn't stop.

His hand moved, and the key slid easily into the slot. The door opened with a soft click and swung inward.

Marco hesitated before entering. "What are you going to make me do here?" he asked, his voice low.

Rachel barreled through him and turned around. "I'm going to make you jump in."

Her smile was wicked, and his heart thumped wildly in response. "I can't. I'm wearing a tux," he protested.

His feet still moved. He listened to the clang as the iron gate closed behind him.

"Then take it off," she said, shrugging.

 

* * *

 

Marco stalled, staring at her. He suddenly felt small and afraid of losing the barrier his clothes provided him. Even though Rachel often saw him in nothing more than bike shorts, Marco still felt like the air was narrowing in around him. If he lost the layers of defense that clothing got him, he wasn't sure he'd be able to control himself. He wasn't sure he would want to.

"If I'm jumping in the pool, you're coming with me," he finally decided, eyeing her darkly, especially that _troublesome little dress._

"This is YOUR dare," Rachel said, shooting him a dirty look.

"Yeah, but I stole a GOLF CART with you," Marco pointed out. He knew she wouldn't like him boasting and claiming credit for a dare she completed. It would force her into doing something _more_.

Rachel tossed her head back, eyeing the pool thoughtfully. She was biting her lip, the tiny points of her canine teeth digging into the folds of her skin.

Marco was feeling dizzy again. God, he was feeling dizzy, and Rachel looked warm and soft as she chewed her bottom lip. The Rachel he knew wasn't like that. She wasn't warm and soft. She was a warrior. A killer. A king. He had witnessed the destructive power of her anger. He had seen her haunted and hollow and mean.

It scared him.

But this was his life now. The Animorphs existed in a barren landscape. They wandered with corpses. They only lived half-lives. They had blood on their hands.

And the war would kill them.

The war would kill them.

The war would kill them.

Marco often thought about this. He secretly believed they would all die before they had a chance to exist. It made him ache, knowing this. He just wanted to be young. He wanted to _live._ He wanted to know how it felt to go to college, and grow ironic sideburns, and unhook a girl's bra. He wanted to see Jake laugh the way he used to. He wanted to forget about the crippling and sick feeling that accompanied the last memory of his mother. The war was killing them, and it wasn't fucking fair. It wasn't fair that Marco would never experience all the meals, music, sunshine, sex, _life._

Rachel looked up. With her eyes suddenly on him again, Marco had to force his gaze away.

He stared out across the water of the pool and the eerie movement of light along its surface. One hand moved to his chest, clutching at an ache he couldn't reach. His heart moved against his palm.

Yes, his ghosts were here.

He was thinking of the first night his mother disappeared. Everyone thought the ocean had swallowed her whole. Many times growing up he had imagined what it felt like to drown. Late at night in bed he would hold his breath for as long as he could, until his mind felt cloudy and faint, and his lungs strained painfully in his chest. And then ... he would breath. He would breath, and it would hurt. It hurt so badly to be left choking and gasping air into his lungs.

Rachel's voice seemed to float out of nowhere straight into his skull.

"Unzip me, will you?"

He shifted his gaze and saw her, blinking rapidly to clear the memories from his mind. She had turned, showing Marco her back, her hair gathered to one side of her neck.

He froze. The dress she was wearing met in a deep V between her shoulder blades. Her soft, smooth skin was illuminated from the light of the pool, and Marco had a sudden urge to press his mouth right up against the back of her neck. His insides were aching. His insides were aching and Rachel was so nonchalant about it all, like it meant nothing. Like undressing her was something mundane and normal, like he wasn't dying inside. He knew they had seen each other strip off their clothes down to their skintight morphing outfits before, but this felt different. This felt like he was holding his breath, needing to see another square inch of her skin to breath again.

His hand wavered in the air between them as he reached out to unzip her dress. The tips of his fingers grazed over her skin as he slid the zipper down, slowly, so slowly. He held his breath as he watched more and more of Rachel being exposed to him. His mouth felt dry and his heart was pounding, but he was captivated by every inch of her. A spill of goosebumps followed the trail of his fingers on her skin, and his insides seemed to tighten and overflow with warmth.

Moments later, Rachel was shrugging, the dress slipping down her body and then pooling at her feet. She was wearing that familiar black leotard he had seen many times. But his concentration was occupied knuckle deep in the soft swells of her breasts, and the long honey of her legs, and that deep scoop in the back that showed off the curve of her lower spine.

She looked at him once over her shoulder, grinning. She had no idea—no idea—what that smile was doing to him (inside).

"Let's do it!" she said.

Marco let out the breath he had been holding, in a shaky chuckle that was hoarse and broken. _Oh, god._

"I'll beat you to your own dare!" Rachel called out.

She ran and dived straight into the pool without a moments hesitation. He felt small drops of water land on his cheeks, on the front of his hands. He watched as her ghostly figure glided through the water, until she broke the surface at the far end of the pool. She was still grinning, her teeth gleaming in the dark, like a hungry shark surfacing to eat its prey.

(Alive, warm, mouth, smiling.)

Marco's hands were shaking, and he anxiously ran one over the top of his head and then stood with it hooked behind his neck. The other hand remained clutched at his chest. His heart fluttered. He didn't know _what the fuck_ was _wrong_ with him.

"C'mon, dumbass. Stop staring and jump in. The water's fine!" she crowed, slipping back under the surface. He watched the flash of the bottom of her feet as she kicked, sending more water in his direction.

 _This is just Rachel,_ he reasoned with himself, trying to get over his intimidation. _Beautiful, violent, unstoppable Rachel._

_Rachel warm._

_Rachel tipsy._

_High school boy's fantasy Rachel._

_Rachel half-naked and yelling at you to join her._

_Fuck._

_What the hell are you THINKING?_

 

* * *

 

He blinked once.

In the next moment he was yanking on his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. The urgency that had filled him was sudden and startling. He didn't care anymore. This was his chance to indulge, to be reckless, to _live._

By the time he got down to his morphing shorts, he was already running to the pool. He jumped in, feeling warm water consume him. When he surfaced, he was a few feet away from her, standing on the tips of his toes to keep his head above water.

"About time," she drawled.

Then Rachel ducked her head back underwater, and he felt her swimming next to him. Her body artfully weaved its way around his. When she surfaced again, she had that same shark's grin, shining in the dark.

"What now?" Marco asked, his voice feeling smaller than he once remembered it.

She kept her predator smile, coming up right against him. "My turn for a dare."

His stomach plummeted. Rachel's voice was suddenly deep and sultry, and he was having trouble breathing with her right against him. How was he supposed to _think_ when she was _this close_?

"I can't think of anything," he mumbled, too scared to follow the path he was suddenly on with her.

"Come on," she goaded. "I did _both_ dares. Make this one a thrill…"

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

"You're like a thrill junkie," Marco shot at her.

"And you're a pussy," she shot back.

Marco blinked, distracted by her choice in words. "Jeez Rachel, do you have to be so crude?" he demanded.

She laughed at him cruelly. "What's wrong, Marco? Scared to say some _nasty_ , _dirty_ words?"

The way she was laughing at him made his insides hot with shame. There were plenty of things to be scared of in this ugly world, but not tonight. Marco needed to forget about the fear ( _falling_ , _a corpse_ _rotting_ ). He needed tonight. He needed this. Her.

His voice sounded firm. "No, I'm not scared."

Rachel was still grinning her shark grin. His mind was foggy, but he could feel an idea starting to take shape.

"How's this for a dare?" Marco said, interrupting the silence. He moved closer to her. "I'll say a word into your ear, and you have to repeat it out loud."

"Doesn't sound like much of a dare at all," she scoffed.

"Oh, really?"

She rolled her eyes. "Try me."

He smirked. "Alright, I'll start out easy." He sidled up next to her, and dropped his voice to a murmur. "Say, _I want Marco_."

Rachel narrowed her eyes, her lips folding into the smallest pout. "You bastard."

"Uh-uh, Rachel. Save that foul language for the challenge ahead. Unless you're too scared … "

She released a breath through her nose in annoyance. "I want Marco," she bit out. The words came out in one hasty breath, a little too loudly and a little too quickly.

Marco grinned. "I _knew_ you had it in you ... " He leaned in close to her, a few inches from her neck. He was feeling warm and dizzy again, and the light from the pool was making his vision blurry. Maybe it was the alcohol, or her skin, but Rachel didn't seem so scary anymore. She smelled warm and sweet, like someone warm and sweet might smell.

And she wanted him.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet and deliberate. "Now this one should be familiar. Say, _pussy._ "

She fell still beside him, suddenly quiet.

"Fuck you, Marco." Rachel whispered.

Maybe she was guessing at his intention now, with his mouth so close to her.

"Are you scared?" he asked in a soft voice. His breath fanned over her neck and seemed to fill the space between them.

Rachel looked like a caged animal, her shoulder blades bumping into the corner of the pool. Her eyes seemed different. Darker. Hungry. Something. Marco dismissed the sort of warning in her eyes. Nothing seemed to matter to him quite the same way when he was this intoxicated.

Just the challenge.

And Rachel.

She remained frozen in place, staring straight forward. Marco was acutely aware of her breathing, which had become elevated and stilted. He felt himself leaning towards her, drawn to that mouth, and the shallow graves of her breath. She was just so warm. Her mouth, oh god, was so warm.

He felt her tense up. In the next instant, she lunged forward. The look in her eyes was suddenly frantic. One second she was still, breathing ragged. The next she was at his throat, grabbing him with her hand around his neck.

"What are you doing?" she cried.

Marco stared, dumbfounded. What _had_ he been doing? Was he about to kiss her? He couldn't even remember now. All he could focus on was her grip around his throat, and the drumming of his heart against her palm. When he breathed, he suddenly realized their stomachs were touching. Oh god. Ohgodohgod. The alcohol was making him dizzier with each second. The reality in front of his eyes drifted and swirled. He felt himself planting a hand on her shoulder to steady himself. The words came from his mouth.

"It's just a game," Marco mumbled. "It's fine."

"Just a game," she echoed.

For a moment they stayed there, staring at one another. Then her hand seemed to relax around his throat. The oppressing grip was gone, and all that remained was her thumb, softly brushing along his adam's apple. It was a warning. Or a beckon.

"Say _wet,_ " he whispered, breaking the silence.

She stared, and Marco stared back. When she finally spoke, it came out in a broken whisper.

"Wet."

Marco leaned back, overwhelmed with the reaction one tiny word could incite in him. His ears were buzzing, his heart pounding in every limb. He had never been this close to Rachel before—or any girl. It seemed like a dream. The only thing that felt real was her thumb against his throat, and the liquid pit of warmth in his stomach, waiting to go nova inside of him.

"Say _fuck_ ," he slurred into her ear, leaning forward now. His voice had adopted a dangerous quality, like there was no other choice but to consent. It felt like he was sharing secrets with her, and every time she replied she was promising not to tell anyone about them.

Said quietly now, through a shaky breath. "F-fuck."

His hand tightened on her shoulder. He could feel her breathing up against him, connecting their bodies down the middle with each broken inhale. He wanted to run his fingers over her lips, and feel the warm air from her mouth. He wanted to lave his tongue over that same spot, as if he was licking an open wound.

"Mouth," he whispered in her ear. It was a confession.

He wanted her to know.

And she knew.

"Mouth," she whispered back.

 

* * *

 

The alcohol was making it harder to see straight. The lights in the pool were playing tricks on his foggy mind. Marco was having trouble remembering which words he had already asked her to say, or why they had started this game in the first place. All he knew was that he wanted something from her. Her promise. Her secrets. Her mouth. Something. And he wanted her to know. To plead with him. For something.

His voice came out, hoarse and wavering. "Please."

Her breath hitched. She found his eyes again, and Marco saw that she was hesitating, fighting back against this latest request. There was an expression on her face that Marco couldn't quite remember. Something like anger, or pity, or both. He knew he had probably asked too much of her already. He knew this was wrong. It was too intimate. Too significant. Too much. But he wanted it. Her. Something.

"Marco," she whispered hoarsely. "Don't—"

"Say please," he repeated, interrupting her. His eyes were dark, but his voice was small. He was asking, begging.

She drew in a breath and closed her eyes. Her lips pulled up in a snarl. This time the word came out louder, a solid push.

"Don't."

Marco didn't care. He just didn't care. There was a swollen feeling behind his eyes, and a heavy pit in his stomach. He remembered the horrified look on his mother's face, and the sound, that terrible sound. And in the same breath he could feel Rachel against him, their stomachs touching with each inhale, and the quiet purr of the secrets they were sharing, whispered in her ear. They could die tomorrow, the war could kill them, but tonight he wanted to live. Tonight belonged to him. Exhausted and used up, after too many days and months and years of battles, this was all he had. How could she resist what was happening between them? It was already done.

"Coward," he spat.

Her eyes flashed open. The wavering blue light danced across her face, and their breath, jilted and shaky, joined in the space between them. Marco already knew she would never admit defeat, even if it was a stupid game. She would rise to the challenge, and something sick and empty inside of Marco would be happy because of it. He watched as her expression changed, as her face began to bend and fall. And then it came from her mouth, uneven and broken. Quiet and still.

"Please," she said.

Please.

Please.

ohgodplease.

Marco's mouth was against hers in an instant. He swallowed up her words hungrily. At first Rachel couldn't—didn't—protest. She felt the back of her head bump up against the cement lip of the pool as he captured her beneath him. Marco's hands left her shoulders, reaching up to hold her head with two hands thrust into the mess of her hair. He wanted to empty her out, trace her insides with his lips, devour anything inside. Despite everything, he felt like he had earned it. His hot mouth was open, and soon her tongue was reaching up to meet his in the shallow space between their lips. The sweet, dark hunger was consuming him, making it hard for him to realize what was even happening. All he could feel was her mouth. Her breathing. Her breasts.

He remember the rise and fall of his heart against her palm.

Marco made a muted kind of noise, soft and low. It rumbled inside his head, making him seem hollow and paper-thin. The sweet ache was burning inside of him, gnawing at his bones. He wanted more of her. Of something. Please.

But with each passing moment, he could feel the momentum start to bury itself. The dizzying rush was dying, and Rachel was regaining her head. Marco crowded his mouth against hers, trying to cling onto the last seconds of this delicious unraveling. Their tongues pressed against one another for the last time, and Marco felt an inward inhale of air empty out of his chest.

Rachel started to struggle beneath him, and then she was prying her mouth away from his. For a moment they stayed, breathing ragged, chins dripping, foreheads bumping. Marco tightened his fist in her hair, staring at her navy eyes. Everything else seemed to be swirling around them, tilting him off balance. Marco felt like he was spinning out of control.

Then he let go.

"Oh god," Rachel whispered, covering her eyes with her hands.

The pool suddenly felt cold and uninviting. He shivered, then immediately backed away from her, putting a few feet of distance between them. The lights in front of him continued to swirl, until he realized he was leaning back, floating in the water. The twinkling stars were overhead, and he watched as they swayed, back and forth. The sky didn't make sense to him anymore. All he could think about was her mouth. Warm. Wet. Open. His.

He knew Rachel was already berating herself, chalking it up to a drunk mistake. He knew it would never happen again.

"What the hell were you thinking?" she raved.

The emptiness was back. The jack-o-lantern. The fall.

He heard her getting up out of the pool, water splashing down onto the cement. There was the sound of her feet on the pavement, and the clatter of the iron gate being slammed shut.

The sound echoed inside of him, vibrating in the empty cavern of his chest cavity.

And just like that, she was gone.

Marco closed his eyes. He felt himself sinking, water rushing over his skin. He let himself get swallowed under the surface of the pool. Down, down, until the water surrounded him, and there was nothing but the thick, dark silence. Down. Down. Where there were no more words, no more thinking, where his body wasn't heavy with guilt, or grief, or the sweet ache of longing. All the remained was the need, barking at the dark.

His lungs burned.

And he thought of his mother.

Breathing. Warm. Mouth.

Alive.

And with that, Marco kicked against the ground and propelled himself to the surface.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review to let me know what you think. This entire story was inspired by Marco morphing into a lobster and swimming at the bottom of his pool in book 54. There was something so lonely about that to me. And so, this.


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